Just a Label (Analee Marie)
by Jade Johanson
Summary: Sherlock has a reason for not eating. He just never let his best friend know why. A twist on the normal reasons for Sherlock's symptoms. Contains mentions of child abuse and eating disorders. Rated for safety.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This was inspired by personal experience. Some people attribute Sherlock's hyperactivity to ADHD; but it fails to explain some of his behavior. Other's attribute it to Asperger's, which seems to fit, but we will give that the benefit of the doubt and, for this story, assume he has anxiety. Now the reason I chose anxiety is because he notices everything. Now, contrary to common belief, anxiety really is an overstimulation of senses that trigger panic attacks; panic attacks have never defined anxiety and never will; they are simply a side effect of anxiety. Now you may ask: Why does this have to do with Sherlock not eating? Well, whenever I forget my anxiety medicine at night I can't focus on anything; I have to focus on everything or dedicate myself to one thing. Also, I never can eat much because I feel dizzy and like I am going to throw up when I have food in my stomach; this is attributed to the overstimulation of senses. That being said, I am not a doctor or a psychiatrist; I merely have an interest in psychology and want to become a veterinary neurologist; but am basing off experience, so please do not judge off accuracy.**

Sherlock glared at the food John had given him with disgust, the mere thought of its flavor making him nauseous. He looked back at John.  
"No," he stated flatly, carefully monitoring his facial expression so it would not show any inclination of the nausea that was slowly rising in his stomach.  
"Sherlock," John pleaded, "I know it's a case, but it's been nearly two weeks since you last ate. You need food."  
"No," Sherlock said, resolutely staring into his microscope to not only state the argument was over, but also to provide a distraction from the smell of Chinese takeout.  
"Sherlock..." John warned.  
"No," Sherlock immediately interrupted, his already ivory skin turning paler by the moment.  
There was a moment of silence, with John staring at Sherlock with his arms crossed and a hard look on his face, and Sherlock staring into into his microscope lens to try to control his rising sense of panic.  
Eventually Sherlock spoke, so softly that John could hardly believe it had come from a man that could be so intimidating.  
"Please. Throw it away John, I can't control it any more."  
John looked up, astonished to find Sherlock's face was deathly pale and had taken on a greenish tint.  
"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked tentatively.  
No response.  
"Sherlock?" John asked again, seriously concerned for his friend's safety.  
"Just get it away," Sherlock whispered.  
At this point John was too confused and concerned that Sherlock would be practically begging for help to argue.  
So he put the untouched food in the dumpster outside and came back.  
To his relief, some of the color had come back into Sherlock's cheeks, but he was breathing heavily and looked scared.  
"Sherlock?" John asked softly. "You okay mate?"  
Sherlock took in a giant gulp of air.  
"Don't," he finally managed to gasp out. "Don't leave me."  
John wrinkled his brow in confusion. "Why would I leave you?"  
"Everyone else did," Sherlock whimpered, sounding like he might burst into tears.  
"Sherlock," John commanded, " Look at me."  
Slowly Sherlock's tricolored eyes raised to meet John's steady gaze. John had never seen him look so frightened.  
"I will never leave you." John said solemnly. "Do you understand?" Sherlock nodded hesitantly.  
"Good," John said, giving an encouraging smile. "Now tell me what's wrong."  
Sherlock lowered his head and muttered something unintelligible.  
"What was that?" John asked.  
"Anxiety," Sherlock whispered a little louder.  
John did his best to hide his astonishment.  
"And?" John encouraged.  
Sherlock took several deep breaths before answering.  
"I was diagnosed in sixth grade," Sherlock began slowly. He paused. "My parents were angry that one of their perfect children should be labeled as... mentally incompetent." He cringed at the sound of the words. "So they refused treatment." Sherlock took a moment to collect his thoughts. "I learned that by focusing on work I could prevent my brain from going into overdrive." He gulped. "I figured high-functioning sociopath was better to... explain. Plus," here he grimaced, "I was beaten every time I even mentioned the... correct... name of my mental disorder." Sherlock looked at John with a look of worry on his face.  
John stared in awe at his friend for a moment as realization slowly set in.  
"So... you don't eat because it unfocuses you."  
"Yes," Sherlock confirmed with a brisk nod of his head.  
"And... eating nauseates you for the same reason."  
"Yes," Sherlock nodded again.  
"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry," John said and pulled Sherlock into a hug.  
Sherlock tensed in surprise.  
All his life anyone he had confided in had shied away... Or worse, abused him.  
But John, Sherlock realized... John was different. John cared. And he wouldn't ever leave.  
A genuine smile spread over Sherlock's face.  
"Thank you," he whispered.

 **AN: And that's that! I might elaborate if people would like to hear more of this. Just let me know!**

 **Also, if there is anyone out there struggling with anxiety or depression, know this: You are not alone. The greatest mistake you can make in this struggle is to think you are alone. Don't be afraid to tell you friends; if they can't accept you for that, they are not true. I have struggled with both since sixth grade, and the greatest mistake I made was not letting my friends know from the start.**

 **Finally, I did not write this to justify my symptoms or justify eating disorders. All characters belong to the BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I obviously do not own them.**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Hello again! My wonderful friend Jade Johanson inspired me to add onto my original story and expand on Sherlock's condition further. This is also based on personal experience and headcanons. I hope to those of you who have complained of Sherlock being a little out of character that this seems a little more in character, because this is based more on John's agitation and Sherlock's annoyance at his ignorance than on John finding something out simply because Sherlock showed human-ness. (I hope that helps. It may not. I am really awkward with words.) Anyway, this does relate to his anxiety, though in a more obscure way, because it is a way Sherlock deals with his symptoms. It does not directly relate to his symptoms in any way, however, because it is assumed that you have read the previous "chapter" and already know about John's knowledge of Sherlock's symptoms. And... that was really long. Sorry. Onwards...**

"I'm home!" John called.

Silence.

John huffed, walking up the stairs to the flat he shared with Sherlock lugging the milk that Sherlock somehow ALWAYS managed to contaminate with an experiment or with the body parts that frequented the fridge.

He looked down at the couch where Sherlock was lying in the exact same position John had left him in.

"Have you even moved since I left?" He asked, exasperated.

"Mmm," Sherlock groaned in response.

"Is that all? Nothing else you have to say?" John pressed.

Sherlock refused to rend any response.

"Sherlock, your tea is cold, you haven't touched one bit of your Chinese takeout and you haven't even moved since I left. And I come back and the most I can get out of you is a groan, like you're too great to receive my help and I wouldn't understand." John chided.

Again, only silence met John's words.

"You know what," John said. "Let me leave. See how you react to that." There was a small pause. John threw up his hands in exasperation. "You know what, I'm done." He looked down at Sherlock with his hands tightly pressed together in his characteristic pose. "And what even IS that BLOODY pose of yours."

Sherlock looked up momentarily.

"It's relaxing," he said, like it was the most natural response in the world.

"Oh yes, it's relaxing. Yes. Not just a way to ignore me." John answered sarcastically.

Sherlock sighed, putting on his _why are you such an idiot sometimes_ face, and began to rant at top speed.

"When you press your fingers together, your whole hand pulses with the blood running through your fingertips. It feels relaxing because it reminds you you are alive. It is reassuring because you sometimes feel too overwhelmed to see past anything. Therefore, I press my fingers together to remind me that I don't have to be a machine and I don't have to cover up everything. And to remind me that I can get over my weaknesses without stripping away my humanity."

John stared wide-eyed at his friend.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and got up, getting his violin out of his case.

"Really John, the world didn't just imploded because I admitted I can feel. _Seriously_. You can stop looking at my like I suddenly sprouted two heads."

And with that he began to play his violin, ignoring John completely like nothing had ever happened.

John sighed, and went to put the milk in the fridge, no doubt to be met by another experiment or severed head. Some things would never change.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Hi guys! I'm back with another of my one shot things about Sherlock's anxiety. The general warnings still stand: if you are triggered by mentions of anxiety attacks, then you don't want to read this, etc., etc. By the way, this is NOT Johnlock; sorry if I crushed your hopes and dreams, but this is just written as a close friendship. I was thinking about Sherlock's observation skills and how he never wants to go anywhere except for a case, so I thought hey, what if he had to go out somewhere, what would happen? This is drawn from my own experiences in crowded shops when there are too many things to focus on. Anyway, here it is! Hope you enjoy! I still own nothing...**

* * *

"Sherlock!" John called, walking into the flat to the sound of violin music.

He sighed.

The violin only came out when Sherlock was stressed, moody, or pensive, none of which John wanted to deal with right now.

"Sherlock," John said again, trudging upstairs.

The violin stopped abruptly.

"Yes, John, I'm glad you know my name, get on with it," Sherlock snapped, eager to get the conversation over with.

John sighed, rubbing his forehead to try and dispel his growing headache and gather his thoughts.

"Right, well, we've been invited to a ball by your brother, and he said we must attend," John mentioned, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Sherlock groaned, and plopped down on the couch, settling his hands underneath his chin.

"Yes, anything else you come to bore me with?" Sherlock asked contemptuously.

"Sherlock, this is about a case. In order to solve anything about the case, we have to attend this to question a certain few people who we would not be able to question otherwise," John pried. When Sherlock began to protest, John held up a hand.

"And we have to go shopping for new suits."

Sherlock exploded into a bout of whining and groans, but John eventually got him calmed down enough to shepherd him out the door and onto the gloomy London street.

"Taxi!" John called, waving one down.

John practically dragged Sherlock into the cab and shut the door forcefully before giving the cabbie directions.

For most of the ride, Sherlock simply stared out the window pensively.

When they began to near the shop, however, he turned to John and rumbled in his deep bass, "Do I really have to do this?"

"Yes," John answered. When Sherlock rolled his eyes, John added, "At least do it for the case, if not for your brother's sake."

 _And this is NOT for his brother's sake_ John thought as the cab rolled to a stop.

Inside the shop, Sherlock paused.

He turned around slowly, taking in the sights, the sounds, the people, the _colors._

He began to spin wildly, trying to focus on something as the scenes whirred past.

Sherlock placed his fingertips to his temples, moaning as his overactive brain tried to process what was happening, as it took in every single conversation.

A woman laughing with her fiancé as he tried on a bowtie for their upcoming wedding.

A group of teenage guys browsing through the various suits for a school dance.

Over and over, the laughing, the conversations, the vibrant, pulsing _colors._

 _Oh,_ his head.

"Hey," John said, immediately recognizing the signs of a full-blown anxiety attack, if not a panic attack.

He took Sherlock's hands in his own, stilling the man's frantic rocking and turning.

"Focus on me, mate," John said soothingly.

Sherlock's glazed, panicked eyes slowly focused on the older man's face.

His hands slowly stopped shaking and he calmed his breathing.

"Okay?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded.

He was back to being Sherlock the untouchable, but there was one thing for certain.

He would always have his blogger.

* * *

 **If you are wondering about my emphasis on the colors, at least in my experience, certain things tend to stand out and one of those things for me has always been the colors- what people are wearing, what is around me- just a general self-awareness. I'm sorry if you don't agree, this is from my perspective and I have found a lot of symptoms are different, so please no criticism based on the particulars. I have also been trying to write more in character for Sherlock, and I find he does spin around some with his hands on his forehead, so I though why not?**

 **Also, I think John would know what to do in this situation, having PTSD and all, he would know the symptoms and how to thwart them and, with a knowledge of Sherlock's anxiety and tendencies, it would be easier to recognize the signs also.**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: *clears throat* Um, hi. This is kind of making up for me not updating When Night Comes in over two weeks. To let you know: I have NOT abandoned that story. I'm just not sure where to go. If anyone has any ideas, please let me know because I am LOST. And Jade hasn't read it all so she can't help. So yeah. This anxiety chapter is about why Sherlock plays violin. Kind of obscure, but makes sense, I promise! I own nothing- everything belongs to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

* * *

John groggily rolled over in bed as discordant notes of Sherlock tuning his violin echoed through the flat.

He blinked at the red letters of his alarm clock.

3:00 am flashed back at him mockingly.

"Sherlock," he growled, trying to block out the sound as Sherlock started playing an impromptu orchestra.

John slowly became aware that sleep was no longer happening, so he gave up and shuffled down to the living room.

Sherlock's back tensed as he noticed John's presence, hands poised over the strings.

"John," he stated icily, turning around slightly, "I thought you were in bed."

"I was," John stated bitterly, "Until you started playing that bloody violin of yours," he paused. "Why are you even playing it anyway? It isn't a case."

Sherlock delicately placed his violin back into its velvet lined case before throwing himself onto the couch with an air that said, _isn't it obvious, John?_

"Helps me keep my mind off other things," he stated simply.

John snorted. "It keeps your mind off things like SLEEP is what it does."

Sherlock groaned.

"Sleeping's boring. And besides, the only reason I even care about the violin is because it is an easy alternative to- other escapes."

John sighed. "And how is that exactly? It's just an instrument."

"Precisely," Sherlock said with disdain. "It is also something to do with my mind and hands INSTEAD of overloading my brain."

John sighed, sitting down in his chair.

"You know, you will never cease to amaze me."

Sherlock smirked. "That's exactly why you're here."

John smiled. "Yes. I suppose you're right. And it's also why I am not in bed."

Sherlock ignored him, getting up and positioning the violin to begin playing again.

John shook his head, laughing slightly.

He may not have gotten sleep.

But at least he wasn't bored.

* * *

 **And that's that! I really hope you enjoyed it. I can relate to this, actually, I enjoy many activities with my hands, playing instruments, crocheting, etc., simply because it keeps my mind off life and provides an escape that nothing else can provide quite as well, since it entertains both your mind and hands. And, much like Sherlock, you don't want to see me when my brain has nothing to do. I can be quite annoying. ;) Anyway, that's just my reasoning, as always I do not do this to justify my symptoms in any way, shape, or form, just putting out my theories in writing.**


End file.
